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This edition of Lyrics2Go is dedicated to Harlem’s Cam’Ron. Never been a diehard fan of his, but “Killa Cam” is a beast both lyrically and musically.

Verse 1
With the goons I spy, stay in tune with ma
She like “Damn, this the realest since kumbaya”
Boom-ba-yay, Killa Cam my Lord (my Lord)
Still the man with the pan, Skrilla fam on board
Now bitches they wanna neuter me
Niggaz they wanna tutor me
The hooligans and hoola-hans, manouverin’s nothin’ new to me
Doggie I’m from the land of grime
Pan pan, gram or dime
Not “toes” or “MC,” when I say “Hammer Time”
Beef, I handle mine, when I get my hands on nines
If I have on ‘Bama line, corduroys, Cam will shine
Canary burgundy, I call it lemon red
Yellow diamonds in my ear, call ‘em lemon heads
Lemon head, end up dead
Ice like Winnepeg
Gemstone, Flintstones, you could say I’m friends with Fred
You unhappy Scrappy?
I got patacky at me
Bitches say I’m tacky daddy
Range look like Laffy Taffy

Verse 2
Yo, I from where Nicky Barnes got rich as fuck
Rich and Nay hit the kitchen, then we’re pitchin’ up
Rob Base, Mase, Doug E. Fresh switched it up
I’d do both, who am I to fuck tradition up?
So I parked in a tow away zone, chrome
I don’t care, that car throw away homes
Welcome to Harlem, where you welcome to problems
Off of Furlo, fella fellas get parkings
Them niggaz newbie bang
Stood out like pootie-tang
Soon as the stoolie sings
That’s when the toolie sing . .
Bang, Bang
Came from that movie Ring
Snap, crack, jewelry bling
Flap-jack, who’d he bring?
Clack, clack, Coolie ring
Bad rap, cuties cling
Ass capped, put him in the river
I’m the sushi king
And I’m gonna keep it fresh
Let the fish eat ya flesh
Yes sir, please confess
Just say, “He’s the best”
Sing…

Verse 3
Yo
How dope is this?
Teach you how to rope a chick
What you want Coke or Piff?
Got it all, smoke or sniff?
And you know my drift
Used to figures, dough and shit
You a rooster nigga, this a roaster bitch
And I a roast your bitch
That’s how I usually am
Tell her and her groupie friends
Go get their cootchie cleansed
We the moody of Gucci, Louie and Pootchy-men
A skadda pradda, the chopper it got the uzi lense
Birds eye view, the birds I knew
Flip birds, bird gangs
It was birds I flew
And, word I blew off herb I grew
I would, serve off stoops
Now swerve in coups, it’s me